Shallow Rain
by Juanita Dark
Summary: Some choices will always be bad. [Wesley/Lilah]


Title: Shallow Rain

Author: Juanita Dark

Rating: PG-13

Spoilers: On the back of the bus from Spoilerville - Tomorrow.

Summary: I have to explain something this short? Roses are red, violets are blue, Wesley is broken and Lilah has glue.

Disclaimer: Do I feel lucky? Joss has dibs on Magnum force and Fox has a fine artillery. I, however, have protestations of non-infringement and a bullet-proof vest. 

Author's Notes: Go with it. Humour me.

++++++++++++++++++++

Shallow Rain

++++++++++++++++++++

  
So the fever that I got stole my name   
It opened me up it twisted my bones now I'm nothing   
I knew the second time that I saw your face   
The city lit up it's bleeding its gifts   
Now I'm sinking   
    Grazes ~ Sneaker Pimps

++++++++++++++++++++

By the time he returned to his apartment his throat burned, his lips were dry - his heart was a judas stung hum in his chest - too fast for separate beats. Rain dripped down his jacket, pooling around his shoes - wet and street-stained. The air was ripe with an accusation he dared not address, hearkening to his guilt.

The flat - like a native country - welcomed him back to its tomb of empty rooms - curtains drawn tight against windows like hooded eyelids, a musty dankness that was all his own. Alone. He now stood in a place where opening the door took as much effort as closing it. That Fred had once stood upon that threshold and called him a good man seemed a tear in the fabric of reason - some island to a place and time from which he was exiled. Back when there was hope for him.

Misery now entered without invitation and the days were thick with silence or rain -- or merely silence. Shelves of books were presented to him like rows of teeth - Cheshire without the cat. Tomes he dare not crack open should they swallow him whole. Axes dull and curved, lay beneath with equally ancient knives rusted by a dirt that may have once been blood. 

Darkness so pervasive had descended, infiltrating his every atom - infecting him with despair - and stray slices of light leapt out at him from spiny surfaces reminding him of sharpness. The mirrors were dirty, his reflection coming and going like a ghost - haunting him; a phantom with pain behind the eyes -- and he needed to disconnect.

It came to him, frozen in memory: the assured cock of her head, the hair waterfalling past her ear and the practised smile that doubled for appraisal then dismissal. An eyebrow raised. A turn of the head that clearly said, 'Get out!'

But he was not to be removed, long outstaying his guest status. Looking for something -- and finding it. Wondering why had he gone there? To give her a message. Or to steal something from her.

He had tried to find a balance between the chair and the floor and found the desk instead. When he closed his eyes the thump-thump-thump was there - along with the gasps of her breath and languorous perfume. 

Spatters of rainfall drilled against the windows with almost military precision. Her smell was still on him.

In the lobby his gaze had caught the internal relay cameras, and what his mind registered, his body was too numb to consider with shock or shame. Instead, his hand casually brushed the chin he had shaved, with the automatic detachment of a robotic limb, using a whirring electric razor. And there she was - a bright, officious bitch framed by the doorway -- even by most standards an attractive woman. Could he hate her for that? 

When he was all about viciousness, loneliness wreaked its full gravity, widening his wounds. Blurring the lines with a mind that would no longer co-operate and a body that was weak -- so weak.

What was he to her? A game? A puzzle? Loose ends with which to throttle the firm's enemy then tie a perfect bow? To his hands she was material that dipped and shirred under his fingers; strong legs on either side of him. Beauty long hardened by cruelty and deceit, teasing him with a body heat that was almost human. Comfort of the harshest kind. With what were sure to be direct and immediate consequences.

Sunlight would spill through the high window with a permanence of day, and some mornings he would face it from the sofa, hoping to disintegrate the moment it touched his skin. His dreams had hidden meanings; glass that splintered and monsters in the shadows with claws and the eyes of women. He harboured insomnia with coffee and cable. And the sound of a child was enough to make his skin tighten and his scars dilate.

The desire to crush her was palpable but he could only clench and groan. A suspension of rationality forcing his tongue past her teeth and feeling her respond. She wanted this.

He was humbled by his mistakes. For they were many.

-fin-


End file.
